


With Nothing Else to Say

by spacetrek



Category: Star Trek, Star Trek: The Original Series
Genre: Character Study, Gen, ish, just a lot of introspection and zero plot, mentions of jim kirk because he is incapable of minding his own business, no actual presence of jim kirk because he is busy at the moment, no betas we die like redshirts, pretty par for the course for me
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-26
Updated: 2019-12-26
Packaged: 2021-02-26 05:21:54
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,465
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21964252
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/spacetrek/pseuds/spacetrek
Summary: A quiet moment in a very long month.
Relationships: Leonard "Bones" McCoy & Spock
Comments: 8
Kudos: 32





	With Nothing Else to Say

The past thirty-seven standard hours had been. . .taxing.

The _Enterprise_ had been diverted from her intended leave by an emergency transmission from Starfleet. They were instructed to head to Beta IV to lead diplomacy and peace talks, meant to solidify a mutually beneficial relationship between the underdeveloped planet and the Federation.

The captain had been understandably frustrated at the disregard for his crew, already wearied from an extremely tense standoff with a rogue Romulan battle cruiser at Rigel V, but had obeyed nonetheless. Spock and Dr. McCoy had been ordered to beam down a day early to begin relations with government officials while Jim remained on board to finalize repairs and receive last-minute instructions from the Admiralty.

Beta IV’s selected officials were a rather belligerent group, and the hours spent with them, even in a less rigid setting, had been decidedly trying.

Dr. McCoy’s acerbic assessment that the officials “hadn’t got the sense God gave a goose” was as colorful as ever, but in this particular instance, Spock found it fitting. Jim had introduced Spock to a gaggle of Terran geese on shore leave some years ago, and the creatures currently seemed far better company than the representatives of Beta IV.

Now, seated on the room’s single chair by McCoy’s bed, Spock finally had time to consider the events of the day and the possible repercussions for their mission. Despite the small quarters they had been assigned to share, he found himself almost grateful for McCoy’s familiar grumbling in the short time before the doctor turned in for the night. It was almost quieting after the hostile thoughtlessness they had been subjected to all day.

McCoy had been asleep for the past two-point-seven standard hours, but stirred when Spock set his tricorder on the bedside table. “Spock? Y’ all right?”

“I am well, Doctor. I am simply not ready to sleep yet.”

McCoy hummed, though whether he was dissenting or agreeing was unclear. Spock did not miss the gentle pressure on the inside of his elbow — McCoy taking his pulse, choosing his own diagnosis over Spock’s. Spock was not unfamiliar with this phenomenon. Humans were a very tactile species. It made sense, as they had developed a requirement for touch in order to function properly, and it was illogical to deny that which one needed for health and performance. Jim touched freely and habitually — hands on shoulders, arms, backs — anywhere he could reach, and with no purpose other than to share some feeling. McCoy was less effusive in nature than Jim, but no less free with his touches, often given for some diagnostic purpose. Machine had largely replaced man in the medical field, as it had in many others, but McCoy was vociferous in his defense of old-fashioned hands-on triage. A frequent recipient of McCoy’s concern, Spock was no stranger to light touches at his elbows and wrists as the doctor sought and offered his own kind of understanding. Irrational as it may be, Spock trusted McCoy’s judgement in these matters over all but the most sophisticated of tricorder readings.

Apparently appeased by said judgement, McCoy pulled his hand back beneath the blankets, thus confirming Spock's previous assertion of wellness. “Still oughta get some sleep. Jim’ll be down tomorrow morning, and we won’t be—" McCoy paused to wait out a truly jaw-cracking yawn “—gettin’ any sleep for a while, I think,” he finished.

That was a likely assumption. “I will sleep soon.” He could not resist adding, “You should take your own advice. You need rest far more than I do.”

McCoy opened his eyes all the way just to narrow them at Spock. “I can manage, and you know it.”

Slightly concerned that the doctor might actually decide to remain awake the rest of the night just to win an argument, Spock backed down. “We can consider the implications of sleep deprivation tomorrow.” Then, with the intent to further mollify, “I am retiring soon myself.”

McCoy eyed him for nearly ten seconds before the corner of his mouth quirked up. “You’ve made your point, Mister Spock. Truce until the sun’s up, or Jim is — whichever comes first.”

“Acceptable.”

McCoy dropped his ire quickly, as was his wont in these situations, and pulled the blankets up until only his unruly dark hair showed. He was being far more compliant than usual, but this did not surprise Spock — McCoy had been overworking himself since the thwarted attack on Rigel V almost three solar weeks ago. Jim had confided his worry that McCoy might work himself to the point of collapse, and Spock was inclined to agree. If the doctor’s presence at this diplomatic conference was not vital, Spock would have counseled against him ever beaming down in the first place. The medical facilities on Beta IV were understaffed and poorly maintained, and the sick and injured frequently languished in the hospital corridors. Though their mission would, if successful, ultimately better the situation, noticeable improvement would not take place for at least three-point-five solar months. This delay was unforgivable to Dr. McCoy, who had spent the little time he had been given for rest and nourishment tending to others instead of himself. Spock had come very close to calling Jim to ask for McCoy’s emergency beam-up, if only for a few hours to sleep. Failing that, Plan B would have been a judicious nerve pinch. Luckily, neither of these methods were required: McCoy had agreed to go back to their room for food and rest, provided that two of his staff would beam down with the captain tomorrow with supplies to help the hospital staff in any way they could. The terms of surrender thus agreed upon, the physician obediently returned with Spock to their room and took to the bed almost immediately.

The blankets were suddenly pushed down, and Spock, still pondering the immense human capability for compassion and foolishness in a singular action, found himself meeting two aggravated blue eyes. “Thought you said you were goin’ to sleep,” McCoy accused.

Spock very carefully did not sigh. “It has been thirty-three seconds since your last admonishment, Doctor. I have every intention of going to sleep.”

McCoy was not convinced. “Promise?”

“Yes.”

“Pinky promise?”

The urge to roll his eyes was almost too great to master. Perhaps his need for rest was greater than he had thought.

“I’m just pullin’ your leg, Spock.” McCoy’s mischievous grin said that Spock was forgiven whatever supposed transgression he might have made, though Spock did not miss that the companionable hand on his arm had once again made its way to the brachial artery.

Still — the doctor’s levity was almost welcome after weeks of slumped shoulders and barely-there smiles. It was sensible to note a deviation from routine, so Spock did not question his relief at McCoy’s return to normal.

The hand at Spock’s elbow started pushing. “Go on, Spock. Get some sleep, or whatever the logical Vulcan replacement for sleep is.”

Spock knew that McCoy knew Vulcans slept, so this was more, as McCoy had said, ‘leg pulling.’ However, Spock estimated that if he responded in kind, the chance that McCoy would attempt to argue with him was eighty-seven-point-three percent — far too high, if either of them planned to rest. With this in mind, he said only, “I will do that.” They could settle this matter tomorrow, after they had slept. Fatigue was an unnecessary handicap, and McCoy deserved a fair chance. Spock fully intended to win this debate, of course, but victory — and the discussion itself — would be more satisfying if McCoy was at his best.

After the doctor's recent work-related absence, Spock found himself looking forward to it. 

McCoy appeared to be asleep again by the time Spock was settled into his own bed across the room. Nonetheless, Spock watched and counted his respirations until he was satisfied that the doctor was actually unconscious. There had been too many incidents of McCoy faking sleep until Spock and/or Jim was asleep so that he could get up and continue to work from the confines of his bed. Spock’s lectures on the amount of sleep needed by human beings to remain healthy had been met with increasingly aggravated protestations as to who the medical professional in the room was, and Jim’s appeal to emotion made no more impression on the doctor than Spock’s appeal to common sense.

Even McCoy couldn’t fake sleep this well; Spock was convinced the doctor had finally given in to the needs of his exhausted body and mind. Hopefully the five-point-five hours left until daylight would be enough to see him through the grueling talks scheduled for tomorrow.

Those hours were the only respite either of them would receive, so Spock spent no more time on hypotheticals and allowed sleep to overtake him as well.

**Author's Note:**

> it's christmas and I'm writing fanfic at late o' clock because as soon as I get back to school it's over for me. also I've missed writing for Star Trek, even if I'm rusty
> 
> title is from "What's On Your Mind?" by Information Society because I have that song stuck in my head right now


End file.
